Page 32 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

“Thank you,” she said kindly to his butler.

Hector guided her over the threshold. The house was too large for tenderness. That was often the way of old families: they built rooms designed to impress men they disliked, then wondered why children whispered in them.

Hector stopped suddenly in the dimly lit hall; the sharp echo of his footsteps bounced off the cold walls, reminding him of his father’s voice.

“Control is everything,” his father used to say, standing tall in the parlor with an unblinking stare. There was no room for softness in his world, and Hector could still feel the weight of that severity pressing down on him.

“These paintings are beautiful.” The Duchess’s voice pulled him back to the present.

Hector was glad that he could not see the paintings; it reminded him of his greatest loss.

He removed his gloves and turned toward his wife. “There is a matter we must address.”

Her head snapped toward him when she heard his cold tone; she stood as if bracing herself without wishing him to notice.

“Already? I have not even toured my new home,” she responded drily.

“It is late, and you will have time to tour tomorrow. This cannot wait.”

He knew he sounded too stern on their wedding night, but he was getting distracted from his duties, and he could not afford that, especially now that his nieces depended on him.

Her brow furrowed with worry. “Are the girls all⁠—”

“Aurora has a problem,” he cut her off.

The silence that followed was small but distinct. “My mind is reeling, Your Grace; you will have to be specific.”

“Hector,” he said.

She let out a soft sigh and whispered, “Hector.”

His name on her lips did not settle well within him, but he had to move past this.

He shook away the distracting thoughts and said, “Aurora stutters when she speaks.”

The duchess looked unsurprised. “Yes, I am aware.”

He had expected denial, distress, and excuses, but her calm answer cut across all three.

“You knew? And you did nothing to help her?” His tone suggested an accusation.

She flinched as if he had offended her. “It is not an issue. She only stutters when she is nervous.”

Hector grunted.

Only when she is nervous?

“Around me, it appears to be constant.”

She drew a slow breath, and he heard it, though she tried to hide it. “She is four years old, Hector. She had lost her mother, been sent away, and now she was brought into a house she did not know. You are a stranger to her; of course, that would make her nervous.”

“But I am not a stranger. I am her uncle.” He shot back defensively.

“That does not make you familiar with her.”

“It should make me safe.”

“It may. In time.”